brilliant shades of red
by quorra laraex
Summary: For some stupidly odd reason, he doesn't understand why he can't take his eyes off her lips. — Daniel/Henley


**_a/n: **sudden feels for them after seeing those deleted scenes oh my god. this takes place after the movie.

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**brilliant shades of red  
**(_your lips on mine_)

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Henley has this smile that makes Daniel remember the reason he was drawn to her in the first place. Especially when they're bare, her natural petal-pink hue in nothing but one coat of chapstick that smells like cherries. He wonders if it tastes better than it smells. Don't get him wrong, plumped and painted in her signature crimson is stunning and undeniably _hot_, but it's nothing special. Especially since everyone in the entire goddamn world has seen them like that. She doesn't go out in public with_out_ it.

Even while living together (with the rest of the Horsemen, of course) in their little hide-out somewhere along the sidelines of Los Angeles, once they return from yet a tiring day of whatever they're instructed to do (from planning, to gathering equipment, blueprints, materials – ) she'll say a half-assed good night with that red mouth and like that, disappears through the door none of the boys have the ability to ever enter – yet knock on.

(It's self-explanatory, though. She's the only girl. Woman. Female. Whatever.

Granted they need their space.)

Anyways.

She enters her room at night with a luminescent red, and leaves her room in the morning with the same luminescent red. It's kind of like her gloves. Both are like her signature, he supposes. Red lips and black gloves. He deems it somewhat sexy. He'll never tell her, though.

But when she creaks through that wooden door (that door that separated the boys from _her_; the door that marked the boundary to a whole different territory; the very door Daniel would sometimes wonder about in utter secrecy) at 3:52 a.m. and he can hear her bare feet step onto the cold kitchen floors behind him, he doesn't turn around.

Not until—

"You're up late," her voice is soft, tired. It's not vulnerable, but it's certainly on that road.

He looks at her over his shoulder, finding locks of strawberry-blonde all spilling out of this pinned, wavy mess on her head, and small feet tiptoeing, arms reaching upward for a glass mug on the shelf, that's making the (somewhat) over-sized T-shirt she's wearing lift high up her thighs. (and good lord, if she stretches any further he'll know whether or not she's wearing panties under the thing.) He quickly stops himself from eyeing her (creamy, long, heaven-sent) legs, uncomfortable with the staccato rhythm forming beneath his ribcage. Instead, he swirls his spoon through his cup of chamomile tea and starts back to his room.

He barely makes it out of the kitchen, one socked-foot on the corridor's carpet, and one lifted along the hard tiles when her voice echoes into his ears, slicked with indignation.

"Danny!"

He stocks back, turning his body to give the girl (most of) his attention. "Yes?"

"Are you not going to help me?" it's her turn to face him full-on, slipping her arms back down to her sides, one (bare, he notices) hand clinging to a hip with amber eyes ready to roll.

And then he's staring at her lips, plain and pretty and _so_ underrated. When he registers what he's doing, Daniel immediately flickers his gaze upward to meet hers, and answers. "I didn't realize you needed my assistance."

Oh, the irony in his words.

They're equal grounds now. He's accepted that.

"_Danny_," she drawls all femininely manipulative. "Will you help me attain that mug?" Her manicured finger points to the rimmed, white glass, perched atop the cupboard.

He places his own on the marble counter before expressionlessly reaching her item with a simple stretch of an arm. He grasps it's cold exterior and pauses to look at her staring up at him with honey-glazed orbs and lips that make him want to lick his own. He can smell her fruity chapstick at the distance they held. She feels his eyes explore the curve of her parted lips, and before he's able to break the silence, she beats him.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he tries to move his focus onto the cup he's steadily bringing down, but he fails.

Daniel practically knew everything. He was the type to steal the words right out of one's mouth, who knew how people worked, how people thought, and how they reacted. He was a perfectionist with all the right answers. And so, he'd never downright hated himself anymore than in that moment, because for some stupidly odd reason, he can't understand why he can't take his eyes off of her.

He hates the way she makes him like this – that her simple presence is enough for his ears to burn and the hammering in his chest to begin. He hates it because his body's reacting in a way that he _can't_ control. It's unpredictable and foreign and for once, he doesn't know what to do. Damned it all, this girl'd been right all along. He certainly _was_ a control freak.

"You're making me self-conscious," Henley states obliviously, reaching for the object in his hands. She'd always craved his attention, especially when she'd waltz around in her skintight dresses, high heels, all makeup and straightened hair. But when she's clad in nothing but a faded blue-grey T-shirt, bare everything, and hair a jumbled mess, and he's looking at her intently with those goddamn eyes, the escape-artist doesn't know what to think.

She flinches when his arm moves back when she attempts to grab what's in his hand, repelling her movements like a magnet. She scowls in response, unsure of whether or not she's awake enough to tolerate his games.

"Danny, come on."

"What's the magic word?"

"_Please_."

She isn't ready for what comes after. Sure, she'd always imagined it – the scenarios that would play in her head once in awhile involving the two of them on stage, or in her dressing room, or in the middle of the city. So when it happens between nothing but marble counters at four-something in the morning, she's too busy trying to de-cloud her mind before she could even react.

His lips are soft on hers (all cherries and embedding and curiosity-driven), and it barely lasts two seconds before he distances back. He thinks she might slap him, being sure to not disregard how aggressive she can become. Henley looks stunned, bare hands clenched by her sides. And for a minute that seems like hours on both their parts, all they hear is each other's breaths while their eyes hold a mutual fire against each other's.

"What was that?" she furrows her eyebrows, demanding an answer. She'd be sure to give him hell if he hadn't responded, and he _knew_ that.

He licks the flavour that clung to his lips afterwards before replying coolly, "It was nice."

Henley's face heats up in this inevitable shade of red that replaces the usual colour of her mouth. Their hearts pace rapidly, and for the first time, she's passive in her reaction. It's probably because she's tired and he's careless and there's a mutual understanding. "It was," she smiles then. It does wonders to his stomach, and he allows the tug of his lips to curve upward to mirror hers, forgetting his usual condescending, smug façade because it's_ far_ too late, and who needed control at this damn hour anyway?

Not long after that, her bare hand is circled around his wrist as he follows her back to her bedroom door, crossing boundaries without a single care, and mugs long forgotten on the kitchen counter.

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**fin.**

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**_a/n: **drabble-ing it upp. debating if i should make a sequel. perhaps the prompt would be called "no shirt, no blouse". Hmmm. tell me if you like the idea? also, tell me what you think of this? i haven't written for danley/denley in months man. hopefully i can still nail writing for this ship - though i still think my older fics for them were better.


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